Sloppy Firsts
by pandabamboo
Summary: When Kagome's best friend Sango moves to America she leaves a fish out of water at school and at home friend.Kagome is devastated, more lost then ever,she lost the only preson that she could talk too and trust.Now she is stuck with the Clueless Crew.O joy
1. Default Chapter

Ok, so I got this idea from a book I just read 'Sloppy Firsts by Megan Mccafferty"(extremely good have to read!)

And I thought it would be a perfect Inuyasha fic so that is why I am here writing this fanfic so remember the idea isn't mine its Megan Mccafferty so please read and review and enjoyPanadabamboo

Special Note: - Sessho-maru isn't Inuyasha's brother in this fic (sorry)

- There isn't any Miroku & Sango in this story at all its an Kagome & Inuyasha flick (sorry sango& miroku lovers)

Also Kagome has a sister named Bethany (sorry have to or the story won't make sense)

Now that that's settled on with the story.

SLOPPY FIRSTS

Chapter 1, January

January 1st

Sango,

I guess your move wasn't a sign of the Y2K teen angst apocalypse after all. I'm still here. Fortunately, I've been way to busy basking in the golden glow of adolescent adulation to be least bit depressed about your departure…

I'm kidding. Sort of.

The pathetic truth is this: I have become somewhat of a shikon high celebrity in the eighteen hours since our goodbye. Everyone is paying more attention to me. Of course, I still lack the Oscar- calibre star power that would win me instant acceptance into the Upper Crust or make Sessho-maru Gazamuzo worship or adore me. No, mine is a Z-level celebrity, comparable to an actress who makes her mark in lifetime made-for-TV movies with titles like _Daddy, May I Dance with Danger?_

The real reason I'm writing this letter is because I want it to get to your new zip code before you do. I figure you'd want something other that your grandmother's Shalimar-soaked hug to greet you upon you arrival at you new Home Sweet Home. Plus, there's no better way to ring in this oh-so happy New Year than by exercising my right to good on the first of our **Totally Guilt-Free Guidelines for Keeping in Touch:**

Snail-mail once a month

Call once a week

E0mail/IM once a day

Remember: ONLY IF YOU WANT TO. The minute our correspondence becomes obligatory, there's no point in keeping touch at all. I miss you. Already

Quasi-famously yours, Kags

JANUARY 

Tonight I've been thinking about the mosaic Sango gave me the night she U-hauled ass out of Tokyo. I wasn't supposed to open it until my birthday, but I couldn't wait. I tore off the wrapping paper and finally had an explanation for the mysterious slivers of shredded magazine pages all over her carpet. For months, Sango had been tearing out pictures of Hershey bars and beer bottles to capture her high dark brown ponytail and dark lettering for my dark raven hair.

I hung it on my wall next to my bed. I've been staring at it, trying to figure out how she glued all those tiny pieces of paper so they would come together to recreate my favourite photo: Sango and me at four a.m. –wide awake and laughing, waiting to sneak out to watch the sunrise.

I remember that summer sleepover at Sango's house two and half years ago more vividly than anything I did today.

We watched the video of her little Miss Superstar dance recital. She was the most coordinated of the dozen or so yellow bikini-clad four-year0olds shuffle-ball-changing to a Beach Boys medley. (Sango's review: hello, JonBetet Ramey!)

We tried to outdo each other in round after round of "Would you Rather" _Eat nothing but fish sticks OR wear head-to-toe NSYNC paraphernalia for the rest of your life? French kiss you dog OR have sex with Chaka, the Special Ed. King? Be zit free forever OR fill a D-cup bra?_

We flipped through our eight-grade ear book and decided that being voted Class Brainiac (me) and Class Artist (her) just about guaranteed geekdom in high school. We thought that Brainiac Who Will Actually Make Something of Her Life and Not End Up Managing a 7-Eleven and Artist Who Will Contribute More in This World Than Misspelled Graffiti sounded so much better. Then we literally rolled on the rug laughing as we stripped other class characters of their titles and gave them what they really deserved…

Hojo Yakimozu: From most Athletic to most middle-aged yet totally immature.

Ayame D'Abruzzi: From best looking to Best she'll peak to soon

Kikyo Makio: From biggest flirt to Most Likely to end up on Jerry Springer

Kagura Otoshi: From Class Motormouth to Future double Agent who would betray her Country for liposuction.

Mrs. Tsurai made German pancakes with lemon juice and confectioners' sugar for breakfast. Sango's then-sixteen-year-old brother, Kohaku, snorted the powdery sugar up his nose and imitated some crazy seventies comedian all hopped up on coke. This made me laugh so hard I though my stomach was going to come out my ears. I felt bad when Sango later explained to me why she and her mother weren't so amused by his antics. And when Kohaku died of a heroin overdose six months ago, I felt even worse.

My brother would've been in the same grade as Kohaku. Sango and I always thought that was really freaky coincidence. I never knew my brother, though. Sota Kamjii Higurashi died when he was only two weeks old. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. No one in my family talks about him. Ever.

Mr. and Mrs. Tsurai made countless excuses for the sudden move back to their tiny hometown (Wellgoode, Tennessee: Population 6,345, uh, make that 6,348. They had to get Sango down there in time to start the third period. They had to move in with Sango's grandmother so they could afford to pay for collage. But Sango's and I saw right through the lies. We knew the truth-even if we never said so out load. The Tsurai's wanted to get Sango out of Tokyo, Japan (pop. 3,699,428, Wow now that's a huge difference), so she wouldn't end up like her brother. Dead at eighteen.

Now II mean, we, Sango and me have to pay for his mistakes. It's not fair. I know this may sound a little selfish, but couldn't they have waited another seventeen days? Couldn't they have waited until after my Birthday?

I told my parents not to even dare throwing me a Sweet Sixteen party. The very thought of Ice-cream cake and pink crepe paper makes me want to hurl. Not to mention the fact that I can't even imagine who would be in the guest list since I hate all my other friends. I know my parents think I'm being ridiculous. But if the one person I want to be there can't be there, I'd rather just stay home and mope. Or sleep.

Besides, I have never been sweet. Maybe not never, but definitely not after the age of three. That's when my chocolate hair darkened to raven and my attitude went with it. Whenever anyone tried to talk to me I'd yell BOR-ING and run away. I probably picked it up from my sister, Bethany, who was fourteen at the time and spent hours in front of the mirror rolling her eyes and practicing pissy looks to advertise her so-called angst. Of course, the difference between Bethany and me is that I've never had to practice.

So wadda you think? Good, Ok, Great, Nothing special, or just plain Horrible? Please be truthful and review! Cause If I don't get some reviews then I will stop writing this story! Well review


	2. THE FIFTH

OMG! I just finished "Second Helpings"(for those of you that don't know what I'm talking about it's the sequel to Sloppy first by Megan Mccafferty) it was unbelievable! Its was that good! Well anyway on with the story!

**SLOPPY FIRSTS**

January pt. 2

The Fifth

When I was a kid, I love playing with the Charlie's Angles dolls I inherited from Bethany. I'm talking about the old school angles: Sabrina, Kelly, and Jill-even Kris. (They never made dolls for Tanya Roberts or Shelley Hack.) They all wore a navy blue scarf and matching go-go boots but their polyester jumpsuits came in different colours: Sabrina's in red, Kelly's in yellow, Jill's in white and Kris's in green, I thought they were so cool, even though everyone else I knew played with Barbie and the Rockers.

This was back when I wanted to be my pretty, popular older sister more than anything, back when I was young and impressionable and stupid I loved everything she loved. Anything she thought was cool, I thought was cool. Though my Bethany-worship was short-lived-thank god her pop culture impact lives on. She is directly responsible for my freakish lack of interest in nearly all forms of entertainment targeted at my own generation (Gen Y? Gen I? Gen What-ever?) In favour of all thing anachronistic.

The Irony does not escape me.

One day when I was brushing the Angles' hair, getting them ready for their next bad-guy-whupping adventure, I noticed that Sabrina didn't have eyelashes. All the Angles had painted on eyelashes but Sabrina. First I thought it was a mistake-like I'd gotten a messed up doll. But then I asked Bethany if her friends' Sabrina had eyelashes and she said she didn't think so. I tried to figure out what it was about Sabrina that wouldn't make her undeserving of eyelashes. I never did.

Until last night. I caught a rerun no TV Land in which Kelly and Jill went undercover as Hot-pants-wearing hookers while Sabrina-in a turtleneck, no less-gathered case-cracking clues with Bosley. Suddenly, her eyelashes ness made sense. Sabrina was the brainy Angle. Yet another example of how every girl had to be one or the other: Pretty or smart. Guess which one I got. You'll see where it's gotten me.

By the way, this is the type of thing that Sango and I talk about. But I won't rehash out convos here. I'll show and tell on a need to know basis. The rest is off-limits. Private

I know it's bizarre that I don't gush on and on about someone who means so much to me. But that's exactly why I won't. When you say too much about anything important, it always ends up sounding more trivial than it is. Words trash it. Plus, my convos with Sango are like Farsi or some other foreign language. It sounds like blah-diddy-blah-blah to everyone except those who speak it. I you read a word for word transcript of our last convo you'd come to a conclusion that Sago and I are total morons I wanted to talk about Charles Angles with Sango in person Today, which I obviously couldn't do. Even though my dad used his network administrator clout to hook Sango and me up with the most state-of- the-art Web cams, it doesn't help much when Sango's computer isn't as high-tech as ours. We spent the artificial face time griping about how we can't see or hear each other. I might as well use an abacus. Personally I am computer alliterate I total prefer handwriting a letter then typing it out then sending it. It's nothing short of a miracle that my brain doesn't just blow up.

In lieu of Sango, I settled for asking Ayame if she remembered playing with Charlie's Angles dolls when we were little kids. Ayame is my age and lives across the street. For the first twelve years of my life, these qualifications were all I needed in a best friend. But that was before Ayame's braces came off and her boyfriend, Naraku, got on, before Sango and I met in our seventh-grade honours classes.

"Hey. Do you remember when we were used to play with the Charlie's' angles dolls?

Ayame shook her two red pigtails and stared like I'd just grown horns out of my forehead.

Ayame is pretty. Very. Actually, she's beautiful. She's what you call a super star, glamorous, or if you are the male sex: "a knock out, what a catch, ahrooooo!!!"

Her looks are directly responsible for the demise of our friendship.

One afternoon in August before seventh-grade Ayame and I went shopping with my mother and sister for back to school cloths. More than one sales clerk commented on the trio's classically beautiful, high-quality genes. Their eyes where big and blue (mine are small and brown as mud puddles.) Their skin, lightly tan and unblemished (mine sunburnt and zitty.) They were petite, yet curvy in all the right places (I was long limbed and skinny with orangutan arms.) Who couldn't have assumed that I was the neighbour's daughter? They thought it was hilarious. I laughed along, hiding my humiliation.

Our friendship was never the same after that. But it was ok cause a month later I met Sango and Ayame met Naraku Roku (an eighth grader, no less) and we didn't need each other anymore anyway. My mom still clings to the idea that me an Ayame are best buds an assumption based on the fact that I've know Ayame all my life, verse the paltry three and half years I've know Sango. This is partly why my mother cannot comprehend that a 60-minute phone call a week to Sango isn't enough. Another one of those reasons is that my mom knows nothing about me.

Seconds after the Charlie's Angles dis by Ayame, Kikyo and Kagura joined us at the table. "Honours" is a relative term in our school district, so I met them in seventh grade classes, too, through Sango. Or Sango through them. See, Sango, Kikyo and Kagura had been quite the clique in their own elementary school. This is as unfathomable as me being friends with Ayame back in the day. Once Sango and I discovered that we were of like minds, we christened Ayame, Kikyo and Kagura and "clueless crew." Now they're still here and Sango is gone. My luck sucks.

Once all three members of the clueless crew were assembled they commenced their daily ritual of not eating and alternately trashing/worshipping the models and actresses in a teen magazine.

"How could they have put her on the cover? Her ass is like totally huge," cried Ayame.

Ayame is always zeroing in on the hugeness of models' Asses. That's because Ayame herself is an aspiring model that is convinced she has a huge ass.

Anyway Ayame has been modeling for a year now and has yet to make it in the pages of any of the major teen publications. She's one of those anonymous, magalog models. But that's goddamn glamorous for Shikon high. (SH)

"Omigod! My dad's photographer friend said she has cellulite," said Kagura.

"Ewwwww!" said Kikyo and Ayame in unison.

"Yeah, he said they call her quote "Stucco Butt" unquote behind her back."

Kagura all too frequently utters the phrases "Omigod!" and Quote and Unquote." To her credit, Kagura has stopped making the double-finger-bending gesture that traditionally accompanies the latter.

I glanced at the cover crow in question. She wasn't skinny, but she definitely wasn't fat. She looked curvy. Sexy. Strong. I thought about Sabrina, turtleneck without eyelashes. I decided to come to the models defence.

"I bet the editors put her on the cover to make us feel good about ourselves. To show that you don' have to be prefect to be pretty…"

"Puh-leeze, Kags," Kikyo said, "Stop being so Naomi Walts, already."

Kikyo thinks that reading feminist manifestos makes up for her borderline ho-bag behaviour. Sango and I call her the Kissing slut because she's made out with thirty-one different guys by her fifteenth birthday. That's when she decided it was time to move on to manual stimulation. And when she turned Sixteen, well, lets just say she earned the title headmaster.

Kikyo calls herself an "extreme" virgin and intends on keeping it that way until she finds someone who meets all her criteria: Six feet tall; drives a jeep; lean and cut; but not meathead and muscular; blonde; surfs in summer; skis in winter; flosses daily. She knows this is a tall order especially at shikon high, so she settles for messing around with one Mr. Wrong after another until Mr. Right comes along.

The Clueless crew continued flipping through the magazine taking swigs of their Diet Cokes and passing one-word comments on the images on each page

"Nasty."

"Foul."

"Hideola."

Suddenly, Ayame slapped her hand down on a page.

"Now that girl has like, a totally kickin' bod!"

"Totally!" a stick figure with balloon boobs- a body that rarely if ever, occurs in nature.

They complained about how they could do toning exercises until Y3K and still not even come close to having a great bod like hat model. They discussed their so-called flaws with enthusiasm. Ayame has a cover girl face, but a "huge ass" is holding back her career. (I'd kill for a less bony butt.) Kikyo "hates" her infamous DD-cup rack. (Yet she continues to show it off in tiny tees and tight sweaters, much to the delight of Shikon high's male population) And lets not forget Kagura, whose self-deprecation stems from her belief that she looks like "a butchy softball player instead of a ballerina." An image reinforced by her nickname "Bruiser." (Her self-a-steam has been permanently trashed since her her step mom sent her to fat camp for her fourteenth birthday.)

Finally, Kikyo said, "Well, Jess would look like that if she got a boob job." And they all looked me up and down.

I ould never get a boob job. It's a disgusting procedure-I saw one performed in The Learing Channel. The surgen went in through the belly button. The belly button! He stretched her skin like it was a wad of bubble gum and just pushed and shoved them into place. Ka-Boom: Va-va-va-voom.

"All we are saying is that your abs, ass, and legs are like, totally prefect," Ayame said. "You should take it as a complement."

I knew where this was heading: a calorie-fat analysis of my lunch followed by a "Ho can you eat so much and stay so skinny?" interrogation.

"That pepperoni pizza has at least five hundred calories…"

" And twenty-five grams of fat…"

"Not to mention like, two hundred fifty calorie' worth of non-diet soda…"

I have pointed out numerous times that while they are doing whatever it is that they do after school once cheerleading season is over, I am at the track practice. And there, I spend two and a half hours not sitting on my ass, daydreaming about how prefect it looks in my bun-huggers uniform, but hauling it around the track. But they refuse to see how all the food I eat makes it possible for me to do that. O instead of repeating myself, I made a false confession.

"All right. You got me. I'm bulimic."

Kikyo was unfazed. "Puh-leeze. You're not bulimic. Binge and purgers are usually in the chunky side," she paused. "Right, bruiser?" Kikyo winked. Kagura winced-almost imperceptible before flipping Kikyo the bird.

These people are supposed to be my friends. But more often than not. I can't stand them.

Well, if I'm not bulimic, why do I feel the urge to puke right now?

That's what I should have said. But I didn't. Instead, I just grabbed my backpack and left, without saying a word

I stood alone in the bathroom until the bell rang. I pressed my forehead against the cool mirror, fogging it up with my breath. I drew a smiley face on the mirror with my finger, then I wiped it away. Finally. I looked at my reflection and thought "If Sango had been there, I wouldn't be here."

Ok so did you like? Yes, no, maybe? Well please tell me in the review the next chapter will be up tomorrow."Repeat will be up tomorrow". I promise


	3. January tenth

Thanks for the review I really appreciateit,at least one person enjoyed my story. Here's the next chapter enjoy

SLOPPY FIRSTS

January pt.3

The Tenth

Earlier tonight Naraku came over to snap me out of my pissy mood at the request of the Clueless crew. An interwenchion, so to speak. It had taken less than two words for them to come to the conclusion that I'm (in their words, via Naraku) "Milking the whole Sango-is-gone misery for way too long." This was hilarious, considering how much I've been holding back. They had no Idea how much worse I could be.

"They think you need to stop acting like a gee bee and get over it."

Naraku in the most self-censoring foul mouth I know. Like every other jock, he worships Opie and Anthony-the afternoon talk radio duo and misogynist masterminds behind "Whip them out Wednesdays" (Female motorist and encouraged to titty-flash male drivers with a wow sign on their cars) and "Guess What's in my pants" (female caller rubs a phone against her most private of areas and male callers guess whether she's sporting a "Brillo,"a"Traingle"a "Hitler, or a "Wood Floor".) Like O and A, Naraku has gotten into the habit of substituting curses with initials. So "a gee dee bee" means "a goddamn bitch." Its kinda of endearing in a way, when I'm not in a foul mood. And I've been in a particularly foul mood lately for the obvious reasons, plus a protracted case of PMS that's two weeks in the works.

"What do you think?" I asked.

He hesitated for a second, rubbing his jaw before answering. "I don't thinks it's a bad Idea…"

That pissed me off. So I went on how Sango is not so easily forgotten because I'd have more fun with her pinkie toe then with anyone else because it alone had more kick-ass qualities than the whole school…

This made no sense.

But I was too upset to think straight, and even though I knew I was sounding psycho, I resented the idea of having to explain myself. And with Naraku, I always have to explain my self.

My tears came all of the sudden, catching us both off guard. Naraku stood there watching me for a few more moments with a panicked look on his face.

"Muther effer," he said to himself.

But then he sat down next to me until I calmed down. This was better than screwing up the moment by saying something corny.

Despite my antisocial tendencies, I don't' want to be the sophomore class pariah. While I'm feeling less then warm and fuzzy about the Clueless crew, I promise to make an effort. After all, you can only be in a bad mood for so long before you have to face up to the fact that it isn't a bad mood after all. It's just your sucky personality.

I'm grateful to Naraku for helping me come to this conclusion. He means well. I just wish he hadn't told Sango about his feelings for me before she left. He knew she would tell me. And it was so classic Naraku for him to be so serious about it, all, "Now that your gone, Kags and I will grow closer and she will finally realize that we're meant to be together. Ack. So every time he does something nice like coming over to my house for the sake of preserving my social status at Shikon high-I think, "you're doing this because you like me" That pretty much trashes it.

I have no idea why Naraku insists on carrying a torch for me. I got to know him much too well in middle school for anything to happen between us now. He was my first and only boyfriend. We went out for exactly eleven days in eight-grade. I if I had ignored him back then; I might be able to see the bulging biceps of a stud in bloom. But I just see Naraku. I see the chronic bed head that made his black hair branch off like a bunch of twigs. And how he would blow his nose and point out all the colours in the tissue. And the hard-ons (!) that used to poke through his sweat pants whenever he saw me in my track and field uniform. Jesus Christ!

And then there's the infamous Frenching incident. I can still feel that. We were in the parking lot right before the buses were about to pull away and Naraku totally tried to ram-jam his tongue down my throat during an "innocent" goodbye kiss. Thank god the bus driver slid the door shut on me before Naraku swallowed me whole. Up to that point, we had simple pecked good-bye. But without any warning, he decided to put an end to the hassle the baseball team was giving him to "slip me the tongue." I had no idea he was going to do it until I suddenly felt this wet thing flip-flopping around my mouth like a landlocked fish. So saliva-sloppy. And bescent mustache on my upper lip. Ew! It was as prickly as a daddy longlegs. I can't imagine kissing him again. No way. Never.

The thing is, I don't want to go out with Naraku just to guarantee that I'll have something to do on Saturday nights now that Sango is gone. Of course, everyone-my mom, my sister, the clueless crew, to name a few-thinks I'm insane for not jumping to the chance top become his girlfriend of the future captain of the football, basketball teams. He's already made varsity as a sophomore. (Well, baseball season hasn't begun yet, but the varsity coach is already body checking him into lockers whenever they meet in the halls. I'm told this is a good sign.) It's given that when he's a senior he'll be the SH role model for strength, spirit, and sportsmanlike conduct. And like his predecessors, Naraku is sure to make empty promises about persuading the administration to et rid of our "embarrassing" mascot: The Seagull.(I'm apparently the only athlete who thinks it's hilarious that our founding fathers chose a rat with wings as our school symbol.)

Personally, I find it a bit scary that Naraku is following in the Nike-clad footsteps of Rob Driscoll, his close personal friend and this year's captain of the überjock triumvirate. Rob's recent claim to fame is that he celebrated an away-game victory by persuading a freshman cheerleader to hide under his seagull's varsity jacket and suck him off in the back seat of the bus. Go team, go.

But the biggest reason I can't go out with Naraku is because I'm way too busy being obsessed with a senior who doesn't know that I even exist.  
Sessho-maru Wada and I have spoken exactly once. (He bumped into me on the buffet line at last year's indoor track banquet. He said he was sorry. I giggled like an idiot, then dropped my plate of macaroni and cheese on the floor-too long after for the fumble to be the result of the collision.) Yet, I knew he is the only one worthy of my virginity. He's been accepted by early decision to Tokyo University, so he's super smart. And when I see him without a shirt at the track practice I'm overwhelmed by the urge to lick the sweat off his six-pack. Yum-yum.

Lately, I've been having a special Sweet Sixteen variation on my standard Sessho-maru-Wada-and-I-get-suck-in-an-eclosed-space-together-and-the-trauma-bonds-us-sexually-and-otherwise daydream.

In this one, Its my birthday and Sessho-maru and I have gotten locked inside the gym closet. (As always, how we got trapped is inconsequential.) At first, he's none too happy to be there with me of all people. And though I'm secretly thrilled, I pretend to be totally bummed out because it's my sweet sixteen and who wouldwant to spend a Sweet Sixteen trapped in a gym closet full of athletic equipment?

Eventually, he talks to me because we've been trapped in there for hours, and he's already juggled the soccer ball long enough and there's nothing more for him to do. Sessho-maru and I end up having what is the most fun, enlightening, intelligent, and all-around awesome conversation of both of our lives. Then, after a brief silence, he says

"So is this still the worst birthday you've ever had?"

And I say, "No, not anymore."

And he says, "I can think of one way to make it even better."

And then he slowly walks over to me, cups my (totally zit-free) face in his hands and ever so gently kisses me on the lips. We break away for a brief moment, look at each other in the eyes, and then smile. We start kissing again, but with more passion. Then we Tumble onto the gymnastic mat that is conveniently lying in the floor and have the sweetest sexual experience ever to occur within the hallowed halls of shikon high.

What's even more twisted is that if I pry, acknowledging that I know it will never happen, it will somehow up the odds that this daydream will come fruition.

I am hopeless. (Ha in more ways then one.)

But I don't need demented daydreams to tell me that my obsession with Sessho-maru Wada has gotten out of control. Today at track practice, I couldn't take my eyes of him. He was jumping the hurdles. He was all smoothness and grace. He made it look so easy- a sign of pure genius. One Two Three AIR…One Two Three AIR. I got so distracted by his poetry in motion that I wasn't ready when my teammate

Carrie W. came at me in a full-on sprint to hand off the baton. She crashed into me and I dropped it. Coach Kiley was pissed. Thank God Kiley thinks he can't scream at girls, otherwise Sessho-maru Wada would have heard his embarrassing Stop Gawking at the guys! Lecture.

Later, in the locker room, Carrie W. brought me back to reality in the straight-talking way that only she can.

"Kags, if you keep torturing yourself, I'm gonna kick you fucking ass."

I think maybe she should. Kick my fucking ass, that is. I am hopelessly in love with a guy I barley know. If this doesn't qualify me for an ass kicking nothing does. As a senior, Carrie W. has seen this kind of lame behaviour a bazillion times before. I suspect she's figured out how I feel about him even though I've never said a word to anyone besides Sango. In accordance with alphabetical destiny, Sessho-maru Wada and Carrie W. have sat by each other in nearly every class since seventh grade, so I can't ever confirm her suspicions.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." I said.

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	4. Feb 5, meet Inuyasha

THE EIGHTEENTH

I got in trouble today (technically, yesterday-but until I fall asleep my day isn't done.) This was a big deal. I can remember every time I've been so much as reprimanded by an etcher.

First Grade. I'm running down the hall back to Miss. Moore's class form my

Accelerated reading group. I'm in a hurry cause its Thanksgiving and we're making mini turkeys out of apples, toothpicks and marshmallows. I'm about halfway there when I'm stopped by Mr. Buxton, whose villainous handlebar mustache automatically makes him the meanest teacher in the school. He tells me that running isn't allowed and asks for my name. I can barley say it because the snickering sixth-graders are so grown-up and intimidating. He writes my name on his calendar and tells me if he stops me again before he turns the page, I will have to take the late bus home. (The late bus is a pretty hefty threat because it's for bad kids.) I cried all the way back to my classroom, where all the kids were making mini-turkeys and singing sings about Pilgrims and Indians. Miss. Moore asked me what's wrong and I answered I don't like books anymore. For a while after that, I pretended to forget how to read so I didn't have to walk all the way to Mrs. Steinbeck's third-grade class and miss out on all the fun my first-grade friends have with Miss. Moore.

Fifth Grade. Someone has written KAGOME H. IS A BITCH in pencil on the

Door to the middle stall in the girl's bathroom. This really upsets me. Ayame- who at the time was my best friend and a very reliable source-tells me that it was written by Lisa Caputo. Lisa has been holding a grudge against me ever since I said that I don't like sleeping over at her house because her father doesn't wear any underwear underneath his bathrobe and sits with his legs spread wide apart at breakfast. So it's recess and my friends and I are hanging out by the backstop, playing the fortune-telling game MASH like we always do. I've just found out that I'm destined to marry Screech from "Saved by the Bell," have size kids, drive olive green golf cart, and live in chance to get back at her! Kick her" I kicked her. Lisa screamed then cried, which catches the attention of our teacher, Mrs. Cahill, who tries to get Lisa to tell her who kicked he. She tells her. Then I explain it was because she wrote the "B" word about me in the girl's bathroom. Mrs. Cahill makes us both take the late bus home. (The threat finally put into action.) My dad is still reconfiguring a network, or whatever he does with computers when he isn't riding his bike. My mom is showing a newly minted Wall Street Millionaire a wildly overpriced beachfront property that will bring her sweet commission. I know I'll get home before either one of them, so I don't worry about their reaction. They never find out about it.

Eight Grade. Although I was pissed that we got caught, I never felt bad about

anything Sango and I wrote in our Brutal Book. Thank god our English teacher only lectured us about using our hyper observant brainpower for good, not evil. Whoo-boy! Imagine the shit that would've gone down if she'd read our character assassinations to the class.

I tended to exaggerate for effect. On Ayame: Did the orthodontist remove half her brain along with her braces? On Kagura: She kisses up to Kikyo and Ayame so much they're crapping strawberry lip smacker. But Sango only spoke the ugly truth. On Kikyo: If Kikyo keeps thrusting her ta-ta's in Mr. Cole's face, she just might ace Algebra after all. Observations like that made it clear to me that Ayame ditching me for Hiten was the best thing that could have happened to me. Sango was the friend I always wanted but never had.

To add to this list, today's misdemeanour. When I get bored in class, I write sad song lyrics all over my book covers. I'm currently in an eighties phase-no surprise there. My current favourite is featured in "Pretty in pink," the third instalment of the Molly Ringwald teen queen trilogy (all of which I've enjoyed over and over again thanks to the programming execs at TNT, who seem to agree with my assertion that any John Hughes flick should be classified as a "new classic":

Please, please, please…let me, let me, let me…

Get what I want this time.

The Smiths' ode to yearning didn't get me in trouble. In a less musical bad mood, I guess I scribbled: LIFE SUCKS, THEN YOU DIE on the cover of my Chemistry book. I don't even remember doing it. But it raised the unibrow of Mr. Scherzer, who quickly informed my guidance counselor, Mrs. Glick, who called me out of Trig to meet Brandi, the school's pseudo shrink. Her nameplate says "Professional Counselor," Which I figure means she's a few credits short of a legit Ph.D. She probably couldn't find enough evidence for her doctoral thesis to prove that hugs are indeed better then drugs.

Brandi is mean skinny the kind that doesn't come naturally. And makes her face look all hollow and scary. She tries to make up for this with a bug-eyed bubble and gush that I know better than to trust. She-like me- is a fan of the eighties, but her devotion has tragic consequences: Kentucky-fired bangs and suntan panty hose.

Every inch of space in the counselling office walls is covered with posters that are supposed to stop us from driving drunk, doing drugs, have sex, and sticking our fingers down our throats. Most of them are totally corny: There once was a girl named Lydia, who had sex and got chlamydia…

Others aim to depress the hell out of you. The Best/Worst one had a blow-up of a girl's yearbook picture. Her name wasMiranda Greenbush and she was pretty in an unimaginative JCPenny catolog sort of way, like Ayame. Underneath her pic is a list of her activities: National Honour Society, Field Hockey, Soccer, Home coming Committee, French Club. Then underneath that it says in bold print:** Two weeks before her yearbook came out, Miranda was killed when she got into a car with a drunk driver.**

I have to admit it made me think about what would happen if I got killed by a drunk driver. I can understand why the Tsurai's won't fly Sango in for my Bitter Sixteen, but I assume they'd pay for a flight for my funeral. Who else would make sure that my mom buried me in my denim halter dress-especially if I died in winter? I could see my mother arguing that it isn't warm enough for me to wear something that is sleeveless, you know, because it's very important for dead people not to catch a cold.

Plus, I'd want Sango to make the show-stopping speech, "The Kagome You Never Knew." She gave a similar speech at Kohaku's mass, so I know she can handle it.

I don't know how she handled it, to tell you the truth; Kohaku's death went so public. The Tsurai's found themselves in the middle of a local media feeding frenzy. TEEN'S DEATH EXPOSES TOWN'S SECRET SHAME screamed the headlines of the "Ocean Country Observer." YOUTH OVERDOSES, SHOCKED LOCALS CALL CRACKDOWN shouted the "Asbury Park Press." In death, Kohaku became emblematic of the "atypical" heroin user, which sparked McCarthy-ensue paranoia that YOUR CHILD MAY BE NEXT. See, Kohaku didn't come form a "bad family." Mrs. Tsurai was a nurse. Mr. Tsurai was an elementary-school teacher and Eucharistic minister at Saint Bernadette's, the Catholic Church they attended as a family every Sunday. Both parents were active in the PTA and never missed a Back-to-school or ignored a bad report card. How could such a tragedy happen to such a good family? Everyone wanted answers and the only person who had one was dead.

Quite frankly, I think the reason that Kohaku got so high was because he was bored out of his mind. He was a really smart guy, and really smart people in shikon high have it rough. There's nothing to do here. His death really made me sad (still does) and not only because he ripped me apart to see Sango cry and wonder why? Like everyone else. I had always fantasized that when we got older Kohaku would see me as more then his little sister's playmate. Not that I had a crush on him or anything. He seemed like someone who would understand me. I was looking forward to being his equal. His friend

However, I can't seem to get out of the anger stage of my grief. I can't help but feel like Kohaku ruined everything, not just between us, but also between Sang and I.

I t was kind of ironic that I was thinking about all this when Brandi told me about Scherzer saw on my book cover and asked me if I've thought about suicide.

Deep down, I wanted to tell her that I've considered killing myself no more then the average almost sixteen year old honour student with no best friend or boyfriend and bigger bumps on her face than in her bra. But there's no way that Brandi would understand.

Brandi a gradated from SH about fifteen years ago- a fact unearthed by Kagura via an uncle who used to "bang" her. (Kagura's verb choice.) We found the year book from that year in the library and saw firsthand that our Professional Counselor had swept the most crucial Class Character awards: Best Dressed, Best Locking and Most Popular. She was Upper Crust all the way-or whatever they called the U.C then.

I wasn't about to confide in her because there's nothing more annoying than an adult who tells me that I will look back on all of this and laugh- especially when it comes form an adult who heartily tee-heed all along. This is why I also refuse advice from my mother and my sister.

So I told her this was all a misunderstanding. "Life Sucks Then You Die" is not my personal philosophy, no, no, no. Life Sucks Then You Die (L.S.T.Y.D) is the name of an indie funk band that I just love, love, _love._ She not only bought it, but also started to act like she's heard of them because she couldn't stand the idea of not being clued in anymore.

"They had one song that got some airplay," I said.

" Right! They did, didn't they? What was the name again?"

Her peepers were popping right out of her head at this point.

"Tongue-kissing Cousins."

" Right!" Brandi starts nearly every sentence with that exclamation. It's method of positively affirming her mixed-up counselees, something she learned in one of her Professional Counselor lasses no doubt. " 'Tongue-Kissing Cousins.' That song rocks."

"It's a slow jam."

"That's right! A slow jam."

And so continued our bonding for a minute or two until she deemed me stable enough to let me go with nary a mark on my permanent record.

Then a kind of weird thing happened.

I walked out of her office and nearly tripped over two bare legs covered in scars and scabs. Inuyasha Takahashi was slumped in a chair, stretching his long limbs right in front of the door. Inuyasha is what we at SH categorize as a" Dreg." I think he was waiting to meet with his parole officer. Last spring, he got busted for buying or selling or using-I don't know for sure-as part of the town's war on Drugs effort that followed Kohaku's death. Inuyasha was four years younger then Kohaku and his burnout buds, so they made him their marijuana-smoking mascot. (He's year older then Sango and me, but he's in our grade level because he got left back in elementary school for doing God only knows what.) Of course, marijuana being the gateway drug and all, they moved on to the bigger and better mind-altering substances: acid, E, 'shrooms, Special K, heroin, etc.

The other thing about Inuyasha is that crack headed girls who don't know any better think he's sexy. I don't see it. He's gotlong blacktangled hair that a girl could never run her hands through. His eyes are always half-shut. His lips are usually curled into a semi-smile, like he's in on a big joke that's being played on you but you don't know yet. He always has a girlfriend and he always cheats on her. Thus, Inuyasha is widely known by the moniker "Krispy Kreme" Because he's always "Burnt to a crisp" and is rumoured to have "bought three boxes of donuts." (In SH lingo, that means he's slept with at lest thirty-six girls. I dozen donuts per box-get it?)

In short, Inuyasha Takahashi is precisely the type of "Unsavoury character" that the Tsurais wanted to get Sango away from. This really wasn't necessary because Sango hates Inuyasha and the rest of Kohaku's former friends almost as much as she hates drugs and alcohol. She would be profoundly disappointed if I associated with him or his vices, so I walked right past him. My hand was on the doorknob when he called out to me.

"Hey, Tongue-Kissing Cousin!"

Though I used to see him sometimes at Sango's house, Inuyasha and I had never. Ever acknowledged each other's existence before. So I froze, not knowing whether I should (a) Laugh, (b) say something, or(c) ignore him and keep on walking. I chose a brilliant combo of (a) and (b).

"Uh, yeah. Ha. Ha. Ha."

I turned around and saw that Inuyasha was smiling at me. It freaked me out. I mean, it wasn't an unfamiliar smile. He smiled like he knew me and was used to looking at me full in the face even though I don't remember him ever giving me so much as a lazy I'm-too-stoned-to-avert-my-eyes look when I walked past him in home room. (Oh by the way you might be wondering why I have homeroom with Inuyasha Takahashi while I'm a H and he is a T. Well to be honest I don't even know why, but we have been in the same homeroom since the beginning of high school. Actually know that I think about it a lot of kids last names don't start with the same letter. You would think that the school board would fix this little problem but they haven't. All well.)

"I almost pissed myself out here," He said

"Uh, thanks, I guess."

"You're a natural con artist."

He was still looking right at me. I giggled. I always giggle like a girlie-girl when I get nervous. Its most annoying habit.

"What other secrets are you hiding?"

I chewed my lip (my seconded most annoying habit) and flew through the door.

The thing is, he's right. I get going on a lie and I can't stop. This is a largely untapped talent. I could probably talk my way out of a bazillion sticky situations-if I only got myself into them. It was just weird hearing it from someone who doesn't even know me.

**THE TWENTIETH**

My insomnia kicked in three months ago; right after Sango told me she was crossing the ocean. Since then, I've learned to hate every inch of my body.

I'll be lying in the dark urging myself to sleep, when I'll suddenly become excruciatingly aware of how sweaty my thighs get when stuck together in the fetal position. So I have to shift them. Hen my thighs are ok, but a lock of hair falls across my forehead and I can't stand the weight of it on my brow. So I brush it aside. Then my forehead is ok, but the toes of my right foot get all cramped up. So I have to crack them. Then my toes are ok, but then I get an itch on my butt. So I have to scratch it…

This goes on for hours with every conceivable combination of body parts and complaints. I've tried warm milk, counting sheep, even the I-dare-myself-to-stay-awake-reverse-psychology trick. Nothing works. I've stopped short of Tylenol PM because I don't want to be a person who requires drugs to get in and out of bed. As if Kohaku weren't enough of a warning, I've seen too many "Behind the Music's" to let that happen.

There is only one good thing about my middle-of-the-night restlessness. I have some crazy-ass dreams that are really easy to remember when I wake up. Take last night's, for example:

I show up at a student council meeting wearing nothing but a pair of polka-dotted panties. My nipples are doing a full on, friendly how do you do? To everyone in the room. No one minds, as though I always show up for after-school activities nearly natural.

The meeting is just about to get under way when Naraku comes up to me all outraged and yells, "Kags! Why are you showing everyone your tits? Today isn't Whip 'Em Out Wednesday!"

And then Ayame says, "And it's not like she has much to show off."

And then Inuyasha Takahashi says, "But she has a lot to hide in the inside."

Then I announce to them and everyone at the student council meeting that I'm conducting an experiment. I'm testing how comfortable everyone is with the sight of my breasts. The auditorium, which is now standing-room only because the entire student body is there, burst into applause.

Then Sessho-maru Wada whispers in my ear, "I though you were being a tease. But now that I know it was an experiment, I admire you."

I could lie and say that's when we have hot-buttered sex right there on the stage in front of 8000 screaming students. But unfortunately for me, that's when I woke up. Christ, I can't even touch him in my dreams.

Dreams are so weird, aren't they? I mean, you can't control who shows up in them. Like when I saw Inuyasha Takahashi in homeroom today, my stomach bungeed down to my toes, then sprang into my throat. I was actually worried that he somehow knew that he was in my dream last night. Of course, he didn't even look up from his notebook he's always scribbling in. He'll never know. But it makes me wonder if I was in anyone's dreams last night.

**So what do you think? reveiw if want to!**


	5. A VERY IMPORTANT NOTE!

**A VERY IMPORTANT NOTE!**

Just to let you know that this isn't Pandabamboo this is her best friend Midori Nakamura Pandabamboo is well just read...

Oh my God! I'm finding this hard to write and if I stop know I'm going to cry.… I had the worst, no most horrifying past 2 weeks. My best friend from school and (Pandabamboo) She's got Leukemia. She's going to Vancouver B.C to get Chemotherapy so she won't be updating any of her stories for a very long time and to top it off her parents are getting divorced! So she said that I could continue them and that's what I plan to do. Please if you read this could you pray or what ever, I'm not religious its just that we need all of the help that we can get its pretty serious.

**P.s.** For those few who don't believe a word that I am saying its ok cause I probably wouldn't believe this message if I was the one reading it. But I swear that it's the truth and I only wish that I were lying! But I WILL continue to write Pandabamboo's stories. So they won't be deleted.

Thanks for reading and I will upload all the stories and chapters that she has done so far onto my account (Midori Nakamura) so don't be surprised if you see the same story again on a different account. Please send some encouraging words to my e-mail address or Pandabamboo's if you want!

Thanks again

Midori


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